Beast and The Harlot
by HealerAriel
Summary: Because demons need love, too. Yes: it's a Meg fic. A Meg femslash, to be exact. Set a bit before and during Shadow. MegOFC, and molestation of Sam, as has proved to be Meg's MO thus far. Enjoy.


**Title: **Beast and The Harlot

**Author:** HealerAriel, with beaucoup de credit given to Liathcosan for being my on-hand editor each night on IM.

**Rating:** R for language and sexual references/situations.

**Pairings:** Meg/OFC, and the same degree of Meg/Sam as there is in the show… (Liathcosan's voice in HealerAriel's head: "ZOMG, hate-sex!")

**Warnings:** Spoilage for those who've not yet witnessed the AWESOME that is "Shadow," but nothing beyond it. Girl-heart-girl, and just general dirty-mindedness from our favorite demon minion.

**Comments: **My first-ever femslash! Whee! Stems from my kinda-sorta girl-crush on Meg, but… yeah.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural per se, but I _do_ have plans to kidnap a certain sexy, green-eyed Texan whenever I get the chance… I also claim no affiliation with Avenged Sevenfold, who supplied the title, and are quite an awesome group.

* * *

Out of all the Lawrence-born citizens of Chicago – a grand total of five, by the way – she would have made the best Winchester bait. I mean, come on, I know my audience, and what macho lunkhead with a hero complex could let slide the brutal slaughter of a sweet little farm-girl virgin, all alone and helpless in the big, scary city?

It was a flawless plan.

Or it _had_ been, until I allowed myself to severely fuck it up.

I caught my first glimpse of her in the forcedly artsy café where she worked. She was getting bitched out by the joint's bottle-blonde, bourgeois-slut manager; just standing there and _taking_ it, with a pitiful little look on her face that immediately reminded me of Sam. Only, _not_ like Sam. When Sam slaps on that face it's exhilarating, and I want to draw out his suffering as long as possible – just to see how long it takes for him to shatter.

It was different for her. Seeing that look on this girl's face tugged at something in the deep, dark recesses of my black little heart. You could call it sympathy, I suppose; I've long since ceased to feel any such thing mind you, but for want of a more accurate term, we'll just go with "sympathy."

The manager flounced away eventually, leaving a red-eyed, but otherwise well-composed employee in her wake. But that _look_ was still there, and I couldn't stand it.

"You know, the world might be a better place if you just had her whacked," I suggested casually, leaning on the counter and flashing my most winning smile. She laughed weakly and brushed back the waist-length tangle of mousy hair that had fallen into her face after all that time staring at the floor.

She was a cute girl by any account, but it was her eyes that really knocked me on my ass. They were green, so pale that they looked colorless at first glance, and constantly fixed demurely downward in a way that made me want to vault over the counter, slam her up against the splatter-painted wall, and shove my tongue down her throat simply because I knew she would be too meek to protest.

Don't get me wrong. Most of the time I'm more attracted to men, but sometimes a girl just needs a nice, submissive porcelain doll to play with.

She was hot for me, too. I think it scared her at first, being attracted to another chick. Like I said before: sweet little farm-girl virgin. Probably had it beaten into her from birth that kissing another girl's a one-way ticket to Hell.

We literally talked for hours that first night; it was a Saturday night, after all, so most potential customers had opted for hard liquor and strobe lights rather than cappuccino and slow jazz. It worked all the better for me.

She introduced herself as Beth Gray. She was barely eighteen; an aspiring playwright who'd come to Chicago after high school to make it big. She hadn't had any luck yet, obviously.

When she asked about me, I fed her the same story I'd fed Sam. I was a drifter, running away from my oppressive family. I've always impressed myself with my ability to fabricate personal experiences at a moment's notice, and the transient routine works _so_ well with the sappy types.

Beth fell for it as quickly and easily as Sam had. She sympathized. She admired my resolve, my convictions. She was completely and totally enamored by the person I was pretending to be, and for some reason I still can't even begin to fathom, it killed me that I was pretending.

Common sense and the call of duty dictated that I should have left that night and never looked back, but I returned the next night, and every night that week, letting Beth get nice and comfy with me. She's not a stupid girl: she knew I was putting the moves on her. Still, it didn't stop the fiery blush that lit her pretty cheeks when I suggested that we go hit a club after she got off work.

I knew perfectly well it wouldn't be her scene, but it was cute watching her try to act like it was, just for the sake of "impressing" me. I even got her to imbibe some alcohol over the course of the night, and found out that she has absolutely no tolerance for the stuff. Three shots of vodka and she was completely sloshed, hanging all over me in a way that attracted so much attention from the other patrons that the owner eventually asked us leave.

In the alley outside the club, I finally got to live out that fantasy I'd been harboring for a week, pushing Beth up against the cool bricks and crushing my mouth to hers. She let out a surprised squeak, but quickly melted into my kiss, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me back until a random passerby snapped at us to get a room.

"Planning on it," I replied, evoking from the middle-aged woman such a look of shock and revulsion that I had to laugh.

We took a taxi to my apartment because, well, it would have been tricky to walk all that way making out as heavily as we were. It's entirely possible that we gave the driver a heart attack, but at least the old bastard managed not to crash.

I'm not sure how we made it upstairs and into my bedroom paying so little attention to our surroundings, but we did, and drunk as Beth was, it didn't take much coaxing for her clothes to end up strewn on the floor. I had to actually remind myself to breathe: hiding such a pretty body beneath that prudish wardrobe should have been a crime. I could have spent all night – hell, all week just caressing her skin, tracing her every contour, feeling her tremble under my palms.

Once she'd sobered up a little, I expected her to freak out and call the whole thing to a stop, but she didn't. She trailed her nails up and down my back, kissed my throat, ran her fingers through my hair; all the while looking at me with those pale green eyes, so full of trust that it almost killed me. Didn't she realize she shouldn't have trusted me as far as she could throw me?

Eventually I let her fall asleep. I held her for a while, then when I was certain she wouldn't wake up any time soon, I quietly slipped out and went to my altar.

In the morning a banker was dead, and Beth was curled up in my arms.

* * *

It wasn't hard to convince Beth to move into my apartment – largely, I realized, because her own was total shit, surrounded on all sides by hookers and drug dealers to the point where she had every right to fear for her life.

Alleviation of that fear was part of my reason for having her stay with me. But I'm a girl with an affinity for ulterior motives, and the idea of having Beth to do with as I pleased each night bordered on too-good-to-be-true. I knew it was a risk, but somewhere between the home-cooked meals and the incredible lovemaking, Beth had made me a little less collected than usual.

Which is why I was so taken off-guard when she demanded – in that way she does that hardly qualifies as demanding at all – to know where I went every night after I thought she was asleep. Was there someone else? Was food and sex all she was good for?

And in my shock and desperation and horror that she would leave me, I found myself telling her everything: who I was, _what_ I was, what I was doing here, who I worked for, who I was hunting; knowing perfectly well that if she took it the wrong way I would have no choice but to kill her.

She was silent for what seemed like ages after I had finished, and I had nearly resigned myself to killing her until she slid her arms around me, cooing about how hard it must be to live like I do; how dangerous and frightening and lonely.

No mention of the master I served, or the people I killed; no mention of the thing I had become, or the danger she was putting herself in with me: just her worries about my safety and happiness.

I set out that night with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered request to be careful, and a few days later the story of a waitress's brutal murder took the place of honor in the morning news.

* * *

It only took the guys a week to get to Chicago after the second death, which was impressive. I would have expected no less.

I was unsure at first if my trap was as foolproof as it seemed, but once I read the suspicion in Sam's eyes, I knew I had him right where I wanted him. He didn't trust me. Oh, he tried to be subtle, but the second he asked for my surname it was dead obvious he was planning on running a background check: a good plan, of course, had I not already made sure of exactly what he would find.

When I got home, I filled Beth in on the details: you know, the usual 'don't get seen, don't get caught, don't let them know you exist' memo that needs to be handed out to everyone who can potentially be used against you – a memo John Winchester had conveniently forgotten to give his kids, and the exact fuck-up I planned to exploit.

Beth got a little jealous when I told her about Sam, but it quickly slipped her mind once I put my hands on her.

As I had expected, it wasn't long before Sam stationed himself outside the apartment, and as he watched me get dressed I cursed the fact that I'd picked the second story. I was all he could see, and as hot and bothered as that got him, it was a shame that he couldn't see Beth stretched out gloriously naked on the bed, her skin glowing from my touch.

My own voyeuristic tendencies took hold, and I was halfway tempted to go downstairs and invite little Sammy to put that massive hard-on to good use, the thought of watching him fuck Beth giving me chills in all the right places. If it weren't for the fact that I had to keep my little prize hidden from my enemies, I probably would have suggested it. Beth would never say no to me, and Sam could easily be coerced or forced if the blood managed to return to his brain – which I doubted would be the case, because months on end of beating off to the memory of a dead girl was, in addition to bordering on necrophilia, not exactly conducive to remaining celibate when the opportunity presented itself.

But carrying out my little fantasies wasn't in the cards, so I just went through with the game plan, letting Sam follow me, hear me talk to the boss, and find my altar. He actually believed I didn't know he was there, which lost him a few respect points. Then again, since he was still under the impression that I was just a regular human, maybe he could be excused for his overconfidence.

I didn't need to follow Sam to know what he would do. He would go back and tell his brother exactly what had happened, and then they would call Daddy. They would get all excited at the idea of fighting my master – who had no intention whatsoever of actually showing up – and barge right into my trap with the typical Winchester bravado. Daddy would come to their rescue, and I would have the full set disposed of in one fell swoop, and get richly rewarded for completing my assignment so well.

On the way back to the apartment I thought about what I would ask for. No doubt I could get just about anything, considering how long He'd wanted the Winchesters out of the way. Immortality for Beth was the first thing that came to mind. If I could only have one really big reward, it would be that, but if a second present was a possibility, it would be nice to just kill Daddy and Big Brother and keep Sam as a pet. It would be kind of a big request, since He wanted all three dead, but I was nothing if not loyal and hard-working, and if anyone deserved an extra reward for a job well done, it was me.

Beth was asleep when I got home, and woke up only when I'd climbed into bed and slipped an arm around her waist. She turned, kissed me, and asked how everything had gone, and I told her. She nodded, kissed me again, and returned to her previous position, saying a quiet "I love you" before going back to sleep.

It left me completely floored, and not just because it was the first time she'd said it. No, the weirdest thing was that I knew, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that she _meant_ it.

The irony of it nearly made me burst out laughing the next night as I held the brothers prisoner; taunting them about being their father's biggest weakness while my own was curled up warm and safe in my bed.

I was strongly tempted to boast about it, but settled instead for a mention of their mother and Jessica, and the pain and loathing in Sam's eyes when he damned me to hell reminded me of my earlier designs on fucking him till he died. I slid onto his lap, and the impressive boner made its encore performance.

I nearly moaned. That boy was hung like a fucking stallion.

He tried his best to ignore it, which was just annoying, so I ground my hips against his out of pure spite as I whispered into his ear – over his heavy, strained breathing – that I'd known about his window-peeping adventure; that I'd known he loved every second. I buried my face into the crook of his neck, nibbling and sucking at the sensitive skin and reveling in the noticeable tremors that seemed to shoot straight down to an erection that only got harder by the second.

I smirked to myself, knowing full well that this was probably the most turned on the little masochist had ever been in his life. Of _course_ he would refuse my propositions: he wanted to be forced and humiliated and broken. Everyone has their secret fantasies. Sam's fantasies just happened to involve being tied up and helpless.

It was a shame that I couldn't have brought Beth. At that particular moment I would have liked nothing better than to be pressed between her soft body and Sam's hard one, the three of us fucking each other senseless while Sammy's big brother watched, hands tied and of no use to him, the poor thing.

I was broken out of my daydreams by a clattering sound. Turned out Big Brother had been trying to cut loose and dropped his knife. I seriously wanted to smack him across the face with something large and blunt – partly because it was such a stupid move, but mostly because I'd been _this close_ to getting off and the dumb bastard had interrupted me.

I slid his knife across the floor and straddled Sam again, grinding against him hard, trying to work myself back up to where I'd been seconds before as I asked him if he'd just been playing a little "Distract the Bad Guy" with me.

"No," he said, big brown eyes looking thoroughly glazed-over with mindless lust. I was weighing the pros and cons of leaning in and kissing him – would Beth consider that cheating? – just as he let me in on the biggest mood-killer in the history of the fucking universe:

"It's because I've got a knife of my own."

If the noise he made was any indication, at least the head-butt that followed hurt him as much as it did me. Once I got my bearings back I felt like kind of an idiot for not patting the little shit down for weapons while he was good and unconscious, but I didn't have too much time to worry about it because by that time he'd upturned my altar and the _goddamn_ daevas decided it would be jolly good fun to throw me out the _goddamn_ window like the ungrateful bastards they are.

I landed on the ground really hard, by the way, which hurt like a bitch, and was all the more motivation to lay there and play dead for a couple minutes until Sam and Big Brother were satisfied that they'd seen the last of me.

Once they were gone, my internal bitching started, and centered mainly around why the hell He let me read everything _but_ exact thoughts. Oh, feelings and abstract wishes I was good with, but could I hear, verbatim, "I'm a tricky little slut with a knife up my sleeve?" No, that would be too convenient.

* * *

I grumbled all the way home, my mood even more soured by the fact that the whole damn Winchester family managed to thwart my backup plan, too. I mean, who the hell carries industrial strength flares with them 'just in case?'

Beth turned out to be waiting for me, and I guess I must have had failure written all over my face because she took one look at me and pulled me into a tight hug, smoothing my hair and calling me "darling" and assuring me that there would be plenty more chances in the future if I was patient.

And as we lay in bed that night, wrapped up in each other's arms, I couldn't help but feel that maybe the whole daeva fiasco hadn't really turned out so bad in the long run. So I hadn't pulled off the grand assassination I'd had planned, and I hadn't earned any rewards.

But I'd gotten one hell of a girl.


End file.
